


Perchance to Dream

by Heather



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Dream Sex, F/M, Graphic Sex, Unfinished and Discontinued
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-10
Updated: 2006-05-10
Packaged: 2017-10-08 01:32:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heather/pseuds/Heather





	Perchance to Dream

They are atop a mountain, surrounded on all sides by lush, running rivers and the low-hanging branches and leaves of some ancestor of the Weeping Willow tree. The dull, faded sunlight in the distance reflects in jewel-tones on the water, brilliant shades of red, titian, viridian, azure and violet, while through the water swims what looks like river fireflies, glittering brilliantly in the sunlight and moonlight that glimmer on the surface. They have a scent to them that is simultaneously familiar and unpleasant that Connor tries to ignore.

He knows this world is not his own—Los Angeles millennia before it was Los Angeles, when all the continents were one and the world was new. This is the world as it was in Illyria's time, and some part of him is thankful for the beauty of it even as some other part of him tries to resist. These dreams are a source of pleasure he doesn't dare imagine with their subject in waking life, while at the same time being an oddity, a strangeness that borders on frightening.

He simultaneously sees from his own perspective and as an audience member, watching his dream self even as he looks out through his dream self's eyes. The armor he is in is ancient, alien, unfamiliar but too damn comfortable for comfort. Black, some mix between metal and skin, dotted with bladed spikes and engraved with ancient symbolry. Connor wonders at the detail—something he has seen before?

He goes to his knees in supplication as she pads in, barefooted and slow-moving with the grace of a predator. She comes to him in deep blue robes richly embroidered with patterns that match the engravings on his armor. They are drawn at the waist, but otherwise open; a length of pale blue breastbone and milk-white cleavage is easily visible, along with a long stretch of white and blue leg and thigh. The curve of her belly is as attractive, if not more, as the curve of her hip and something primal in him takes over as he breathes deeply, scents her and is reminded once again that she is his, even as he is hers; quickening inside her is his flesh and blood. They are connected. Forever.

Her hands are in his hair even as his palms cup her abdomen. Her long nails drag themselves against his scalp as he presses his lips to the long midnight blue line of flesh down the middle of her torso.

"Bringer." She whispers, eyes closing to take in the sensation of touch. Her head arches back, her hair tumbling over her slim shoulders, baring her throat.

"Goddess." He responds, stroking his hands up her sides and rising to his feet.

She smiles at him with fierce pride, abiding affection and primal tie. She leans in, hovers her face above his neck, slowly exhaling a hot breath close to his skin. His hands trace another path up her sides and the words come to him, tumble out of him as if from someone else. "I come to you in prayer and supplication."

"I receive you in succor and in love."

"I offer myself as the lowest of your servants."

"I accept you as the most gracious master."

He shivers slightly. "I pledge myself, to you and to yours."

Her hand guides his to the crest of her stomach, presses his palm flat against the strong movements within. "In return, I gift you with all that is ours."

The robes melt off of her body even as his armor does the same. He cannot ascertain which of them did this, but somehow it fails to matter in the face of the naked sky-goddess reality of her.

His cheek joins his hand, his lips making a moist, hot trail along her body as he kisses her and whispers against her skin, "Ours."

"Yes." She whispers back as her hands tighten their grip on his hair, tilting his head only slightly upwards. His kisses follow the subtle command, going higher on her body as his hands find their way upwards, closing on her breasts. She makes no sound, but arches into his touch, shuddering lightly as she does. Illyria's nails rake down his neck, his back, digging into his waist like little knives, rivulets of blood trickling down from everywhere she touches; this is a sacrifice, a gift. Another way in which he worships her.

Connor's hands catch her under the backs of her thighs, easily lifting her up, pulling her against him, Illyria's knees automatically parting wide to allow him access. He continues kissing her, hard and desperate, but does not confine himself to her mouth—his lips, teeth and tongue wander her lips, her throat, the curve of her jaw, the lobes of her ears and the hardness of her nipples.

Illyria moans, arches and cries out for him, but scarcely touches him back. Connor finds he doesn't mind much. He's worshipped her a thousand times and a thousand ways in this place and it always goes thus. In this world, they are not lovers; she is a goddess and he is her supplicant. There are other worlds, other dreams, in which it is different, in which they are different. In this one, he is hers. In this one, he finds rapture of a different kind: belonging.

Connor carries her, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, to a stone table that he knows, without knowing how he knows, is used to honor her with blood sacrifice. (There is no sight, no scent—there are rarely any scents in these dreams) His hands traverse the length of her body once more—stroking her face, her neck, her breasts, her belly, sliding beneath her hips to lift her up, just a little, just for a moment.

Then he is on her and in her and there is no ecstasy like this one in the world, not in other dreams, not in waking life, not in anything else he has ever imagined.

Connor laces his fingers through hers, clinging tight to her hand as he raises his body up and buries himself deeper, his eyes squeezing shut at the sensation of painpowerpleasurepain. Illyria's body pulls him in like it's welcoming him home. Her mouth find his as their hips are drawn together again and again, stroke for stroke, measure for measure. Her heels leave bruises upon his back. Her wild thrusts surge forward to meet his own while he whispers in her ear between ragged breaths, "Love you, worship you, forever your servant…"

She cries and she screams, pets him and kisses him, and calls him by name: Connor, Steven, Bringer, Destroyer, _Mine…_

Some part of him wants to laugh; some part wants to weep. He settles instead upon continuing his course, pounding deep into her body and murmuring into her breast: "Beautiful, so beautiful."


End file.
